


I Have Been Changed For Good

by kayura_sanada



Series: For Good [26]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Dragon Age Quest: Questioning Beliefs (Fenris Act III), Fluff, M/M, Romance, Self-Reflection, You Got It You Got It Bad, these two are a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-10 21:56:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13510569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayura_sanada/pseuds/kayura_sanada
Summary: Dawn breaks over Fenris’ first day freed from Danarius’ decade-long hunt. Both he and Hawke must now look to the future.





	I Have Been Changed For Good

**Author's Note:**

> The second part of this is a re-enactment of a scene you’ve already seen (though I've altered parts of it). If you’re uninterested in seeing it, please feel free to skip! Search for the phrase “he lifted himself off the bench” to reach the end of the re-enactment and the continuation of the original work.
> 
> I hope this lives up to expectations!

Hawke loved Fenris in a way that Fenris could never love Hawke.

He knew this. Because he was a mage.

Every time he was with Fenris, it didn’t take long to be reminded of how little he trusted mages or magic. Azzan understood, as far as he was able, and any farther, he simply chose to accept. Fenris’ entire life had been destroyed by those with magic. It made sense that the man would never be able to view such things without hate in his heart.

Which meant that, no matter what happened to them, no matter what Fenris might feel for him, the elf could never love Azzan the way Azzan loved him.

It didn’t have to be a tragedy. Love in and of itself needed nothing but the other’s happiness. But he could admit, to himself, in the darkest parts of his heart, that he wished Fenris could care for him enough to maybe, perhaps, see that it wasn’t magic that made people cruel, but their own desires. And sometimes, he thought he saw it in Fenris. Sometimes, when Fenris hadn’t been attacked by anyone trying to return him to Tevinter, he would make statements that led Azzan to thinking things might have settled in Fenris’ heart.

But then, always, came the next battle, the next betrayal. The next hurt.

“ _Magic has tainted that, too.”_

“ _I feel unclean. Like this magic is not only etched into my skin, but has also stained my soul.”_

Hawke couldn’t breathe.

No. That wasn’t fair. He could. He just didn’t want to. The movement of his chest hurt.

He said hello to Bodahn, who immediately started turning in for the night after the greeting. Orana sat in the corner of the room, her wide eyes silently watching him as he made his way straight from the main room up the stairs to his bedroom. He kicked his door shut, walked to the bed, and dropped to his knees. From start to finish, he recited the Prayers for the Despairing, Faith chiming in quietly in the back of his mind. He tried to listen to the words he said, to believe them as they passed his lips. Instead he felt dirty, cheap. Fake. He bowed his head and begged the Maker to help.

“I am not alone,” he said, and pressed his folded hands against his forehead. “Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here.”

Fenris could never forgive mages their power or what they chose to do with it. He’d told himself over and over again that he would be all right with that. That he didn’t need anything from Fenris. But more and more, he was realizing that he _did_. He kept trying to not demand anything from the man, only to want and want and _want_. And when, inevitably, he didn’t receive the reaction he wanted, he got hurt and upset all over again. He knew better. He knew these emotions would lead only to a dark and forbidding place. A road with monsters on every side. Yet still, he wanted it, until he ached with every breath.

He’d been telling himself all day to not let this get to him. He’d been trying to find reasons for Fenris to tell him, a mage and a friend, straight to his face that magic is a tainted, staining thing. And all he could conclude was that either Fenris hated him, too, at least a little, or Fenris considered him some sort of exception.

At this point, he would rather be hated, too. Because being an exception meant Fenris was either in denial over Azzan’s magic, or he had managed to disassociate Azzan from magic so thoroughly that Azzan was considered ‘other.’ Like some exotic brand of human.

Alone, in the dark, in his room, he couldn’t find a way in which either of those conclusions turned out well for him. Either he ‘wasn’t like all mages’ – meaning, one, that all mages were still evil in Fenris’ mind, and two, that the instant Fenris learned Azzan wasn’t perfect, wasn’t strong, and found Azzan facing these sorts of challenges all the time, he would turn away in horror, because Azzan was like all those other mages, after all – or he was someone who could never, ever be fully trusted or accepted, because just like all other mages, he was a maleficar waiting to happen.

He leaned forward until his face smushed into the blankets on his bed. He didn’t want to think like this. He didn’t want his chest to feel like an open sore, infected until it was sensitive and red-hot to the touch. He didn’t want this.

He didn’t know why he was crying.

Faith blanketed him. She didn’t try to numb the pain, for which he was grateful. Like a petulant child, he _wanted_ to feel the agony tearing him up inside. It was… it was like an infection getting lanced.

He loved Fenris. He would always love Fenris. But this pain. He couldn’t live with it anymore.

It existed because of expectation. No matter how many times he told himself to just love from the sidelines, to not expect anything, to not _want_ anything, always he gave himself positions in which he would still be hurt. ‘We won’t be together, but we can still be friends.’ ‘He doesn’t love me like that, but he cares about me.’ ‘He may never trust all mages, but he seems to be slowly accepting them as people.’ And every time, he faced this same heartbreak.

How many times had he sat in this room and sworn to himself that he would accept how he felt about Fenris without reservation? How many times had he felt this way, only to tell himself that he was being selfish? How many times would he continue doing this?

He pulled himself up from the blankets. The prayer, finished now, lingered like a stain on his tongue. “I’m tired,” he whispered. The words sounded harsh. Like a tornado. Like chaos. Like death.

Faith didn’t have any wisdom to share. There was nothing in the Chant that could answer his questions. Too much of the Chant took from the story of Andraste, or Shartan, or even Victoria. But there was nothing for mages. Nothing but an order to serve man, and what else had he been doing? He tried his best to be what the Maker needed him to be, what the world needed him to be – what his family, his friends, Kirkwall, all needed him to be.

He was tired of trying to fill those roles.

The role of son, of brother, meant little now. The role of Champion was so heavy he could barely lift it; the stares he received, the pointed questions the templars asked, the parties and dinners he had to attend to remain in the nobles’ favor, their clear backing of him keeping Meredith and her hounds away – it all felt like chains dragging around his ankles as he moved. And his friends. The moral mercenary, brought in to help whenever the guards needed him. The friend who came running when called – when not called. The mage fighting for mage rights. The editor, the listener, the guardian, the assistant, the anti-maleficar dissenter.

While Faith had nothing helpful to say, it did send what comfort it could to him. He could hear the thoughts, such as they were, that came to the spirit’s mind. It was not a spirit of compassion, and so felt it was limited in how it could assist Hawke. It did, however, attempt to convey the idea that even the Maker had grown tired, that even Andraste had fallen to despair. Growing tired and weary at the tasks set before someone wasn’t a bad thing. The only bad thing would be to stop trying, to stop caring. To think more of oneself than another, as Maferath had done.

He sighed. A part of him wanted to rebel. A part of him snarled away from such a concept, wanting to be selfish and wounded and angry. But he remembered the story of Maferath. Faith helped him with the exact wording, until the Chant streamed across the back of his mind: “In the solitude of the night, Maferath dwelled in his bitterness, And the Light which once burned within him extinguished.”

He would not be like Maferath. He would not let his bitterness turn him from those he loved. He didn’t want them hurting and alone and abandoned and betrayed. He just… didn’t want to be hurt or betrayed, either.

Faith warmed him, though its thoughts were cold. Andraste, it thought, had not been allowed to choose who betrayed or hurt her. He, too, would not be given such a choice.

His Light was his to either sustain or snuff out.

“Right.”

There was no real recovering from this. He already knew he would have hopes. Expectations. He knew he would hurt like this over and over again, that he would get more and more exhausted. He feared running out of the ability to care. What if, one day, he could no longer keep his promise to Fenris to stay by his side? What if he one day failed to pull himself back together and harmed both himself and Faith?

He didn’t know how long it took. The concept of time was lost to him as he tried to piece himself back together again. All in all, he told himself, he’d heard much worse over the years. From Aveline, who had threatened to turn Azzan in the moment she fell to a demon’s call, to Meredith, whose watchful gaze glared into the back of his head every time he stepped outside his home. Even Fenris had said worse things. Azzan couldn’t think of any at the moment, but he was certain there had been worse.

If he’d heard worse, then why was this one hurting him so much?

He clenched his eyes shut tight, until white spots popped behind his eyelids. He knew why. He knew that, after so many years, his heart was tired from hearing it over and over again. That, after so many years, this reversion to despising and blaming magic for everything was exhausting. Even though Fenris had every right. Even though Fenris had every reason. Still. Still, Azzan wondered if maybe, just maybe, he might also have the right to be hurt by it.

Maybe, just maybe, he had the right to fear Fenris’ betrayal.

Could he think that and still be what he needed to be?

It felt like hours by the time he managed to lift his head and breathe deeply. The night sky behind his curtains seemed darker than ever. He turned to stare out into that inky blackness, only to blink. He usually had his curtains drawn by now. He stood and pulled them shut. As always, he saw no sign of his stalker, but he was certain the man was out there. He’d likely watched Azzan’s breakdown. He grimaced.

Faith’s presence never faltered inside him; it couldn’t infuse any more of its warmth into him, yet he could feel how it wanted to, as his chest clenched and his breathing stuttered. Somewhere out there, someone had seen his weakness. He prayed the killer didn’t recognize that it had been Fenris who had led him to that state. He didn’t want the man to think Azzan’s friends needed to be dealt with.

He would go to visit Fenris in the morning. He would be fine. He would put everything he was feeling and shove it back in a box, at least for a few days. Because as painful as thinking all of this had been, it was nothing to the realization that Fenris no longer had to stay.

Fenris might… might need help packing. Because he no longer needed to squat inside his Hightown mansion, or in Hightown. Or in Kirkwall. There was no ‘face the beast.’ There was no more beast. Fenris had only stayed in Kirkwall because of Danarius.

A whole new pain was centering around him, and he was furious that it had taken him so long to realize this one.

Fenris might be leaving.

Suddenly he wanted to go see the man right away, to dart across the streets and bang on the door to his mansion until he saw Fenris’ face. And, in the same instant, he knew he didn’t have the right. Fenris had finally, _finally_ gotten the freedom for which he’d been fighting for a decade. The last thing Azzan should do was dictate, in any way, what Fenris did next. He had the whole world to explore. He might have places he might wish to return to – the Fog Warriors immediately came to mind – or causes for which to fight – perhaps he would want to raise a rebellion in Tevinter, or fight against slavers coming out of the country. Maybe he just wanted to get away from anywhere that would remind him of Danarius, or his battles, or magic.

In any case, this might be the last few days he ever saw Fenris.

And he’d been spending his last hours hurting over the fact that Fenris still hated all things magic. He’d been wasting his time.

Faith was pleased to hear his conclusion of events. He was no longer drowning in something selfish, but mourning the passing – of a sort – of a dear friend. This was something they could apply themselves to without demanding things for themselves. After all, Fenris might be leaving, but this was supposed to be a moment of celebration. Fenris was free.

He would have to visit Varric before he went to Fenris’ place. They would have to throw Fenris a party. Potentially a going-away party.

It hurt, but he could close his eyes and battle it back. His hurt had no place in this. Whatever Fenris might feel for him, however the elf may forever view magic, this was his time of triumph. He’d earned every ounce of happiness he could get. And if Azzan only had a few more days with him, then Fenris would receive all that happiness and more.

After all, Azzan loved Fenris. More than Fenris could ever love him.

* * *

“You know,” Azzan heard as he stepped up to Fenris’ room in his mansion, “you could go anywhere you like now.”

Azzan flinched.

“I’m aware of that,” Fenris said. Angrily. Azzan cocked his head to the side.

“Oh!” Isabela exclaimed, and Azzan could just see it, the excited face she was making. “You could become a raider. You could join my crew.”

“The crew of your nonexistent ship,” Fenris said, and Azzan decided he would have to intervene, if Fenris was so upset he was taking shots at his friends.

“Well.” Isabela stood as he walked in. Ah. Too late. “With that attitude, you’re not going anywhere, are you?” She turned and left, pointedly rolling her eyes and shaking her head at Azzan as she did so. Azzan barely had time to turn back to Fenris before the man sighed.

“She doesn’t understand.” Azzan turned back. Faith, trying to help, pointed out that, prickly as he’d been, Fenris had immediately dropped his shields around Azzan. While not bothering to try to explain to Isabela, he chose to explain to Azzan immediately. It worked. Azzan relaxed. He sat where Isabela had, showing that he was willing to listen. Fenris didn’t turn to him, but he continued talking, nonetheless. “Yes, I am free. Danarius is dead. Yet…” Fenris glared at the ground. He sat up and stared at Azzan for the first time since he entered. “It doesn’t feel like it should.”

Azzan heart, which had been pounding all night, keeping him from getting any true rest, settled a bit more at the sight of Fenris’ indecision. He leaned forward, giving Fenris everything. “You thought killing him would solve everything, but it doesn’t.”

“I suppose not.” He shrugged. “I thought, if I didn’t need to run and fight to stay alive, I would finally be able to live as a free man does.” Fenris grimaced. “But how is that? My sister is gone, and I have nothing.” He looked down again. “Not even an enemy.”

“Maybe,” Azzan said, biting back everything he wanted to say – that Fenris had something, if he wanted to have it, that Azzan would help – because this had nothing to do with him, “that just means there’s nothing holding you back.”

From going anywhere. Without him.

Fenris’ brows scrunched. “Hm. An interesting thought. It’s just…” He looked away again, only to glare straight back up. “Difficult,” Fenris said, apparently deciding the word to be the best he could find, “to overlook the stain magic has left on my life.”

Oh. _Oh._

Hold back, he told himself, forcing his face to stay still, demanding his body not flinch. This wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about him.

“If I seem bitter,” Fenris said, continuing, “it’s not without cause.”

Ah. Oh. So Fenris had thought back over what had happened in the tavern, had realized what he must have sounded like. Azzan told himself not to wrap his fingers too tightly around that notion. It didn’t mean what he wanted it to mean. It couldn’t. Fenris may realize what had happened, but he still recognized how he felt about magic.

 _I know_ , Azzan wanted to say. He knew Fenris had every reason to hate magic. He wasn’t any more upset about that than he was Aveline’s decision. The only reason it hurt so much was because Azzan loved them so much. He knew that. He knew he was placing hopes and expectations on them that they couldn’t possibly meet.

Faith’s opinion on the subject was clear, even without words. He could almost hear the spirit’s thoughts in his mind. _Then stop doing_ it. As if it was simple. Perhaps it was.

He loved Fenris more than Fenris could ever love him. But if he dropped expectations – if he lived like a spirit of compassion, for instance, never asking for anything in return – then he wouldn’t be hurt by that fact.

But, he realized in the same instant, as he found himself hoping, anyway, he couldn’t do that. Because he was human.

Fenris shrugged, his gaze never leaving Azzan’s. “Perhaps it _is_ time to move forward.” Azzan’s eyelids fluttered. It was the only part of himself he couldn’t control in time. “I just… don’t know where that leads.” Fenris tilted his head. “Do you?”

Almost, _almost_ , he made this moment about him. Because, to him, it _sounded like it was_. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Fenris couldn’t change how he felt simply to suit what Azzan wanted or needed. It had to be of his own accord. Maker help him, he needed to keep himself distant from this. “You want to move forward, but you still see magic as the prevailing stain on your life?”

He could have worded that better. He _should_ have.

But Fenris didn’t pick up his bias. Or, if he did, he didn’t care. Instead he scowled and waved his hand. “ _Think_ about it, Hawke. Look at what happened to your mother.” Azzan flinched. “Look at the life you’ve had to lead.” This time, Fenris was looking at him, and he couldn’t afford another flinch. It trembled up his shoulders into his neck, instead. “Is there anyone whose life has been touched by magic that it actually benefits?”

 _Don’t make it personal, don’t make it personal, don’t make it personal._ Azzan couldn’t breathe. This was the conclusion Fenris had reached. This was as far as they could go. _Why_ was he hurting all over again, after just telling himself not to get his hopes up? _Breathe. Breathe, and accept your limits._ “There are many kinds of magic,” he said. Each word was chosen carefully, not allowing him to make it about him, nor to place any burden on Fenris. “Just as there are many kinds of people.”

“For every mage like you, Hawke, there are a dozen more too weak to handle their power.” Despite Azzan’s efforts, Fenris recognized where Azzan was going. Fenris even met him halfway. Of a sort. “Them,” Fenris said, “I fear. As should you. As should anyone.”

Once again, Azzan was an exception to the rule. He took a deep breath. It nearly caught in his throat. “It’s not that simple.” If Azzan feared the magic and not the man, that would mean fearing himself. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t let himself become the kind of person who feared what they could do, until they found themselves doing nothing. _It wasn’t that simple._

“Perhaps it is. Perhaps it isn’t. I don’t care about that right now. I have other concerns.” Fenris turned away again. He’d broken eye contact so many times in this conversation. Azzan’s fingers clenched. “Some new path. Wherever it may lead.”

Azzan’s heart tripped. Despite himself, despite the pain inside him, he thought about losing this man and hurt even worse. His hands shook. His throat nearly closed up. “Wherever it leads,” he said, and clasped his fingers together tight to try to control them; his mind shouted at him not to make it about him, but he couldn’t stop himself anymore. “I hope it means we’ll stay together.”

Finally, there seemed to be some sort of certainty to Fenris’ movements. He turned back to Azzan with a small smile. “That is my hope, as well.”

Azzan wouldn’t let himself think Fenris was relieved. But, if he was, it wasn’t surprising to know that Fenris would prefer the knowledge that Azzan was by his side. That he hadn’t been sent completely adrift after the loss of the chance of family and the death of the man whose existence had ruled every decision Fenris had ever made. Azzan told himself, again, not to put any further stock into it.

Fenris stared at him. “We’ve… never discussed what happened between us three years ago.”

He had to blink rapidly or else risk losing himself. Dread filled him. He tried to shrug it off as if it didn’t matter. “You didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I felt like a fool,” Fenris said. Clearly ready, now, to talk about it, anyway. Azzan held his breath. Fenris’ strong shoulders slumped. “I thought it better if you hated me. I deserved no less.” Azzan wanted to say that would be impossible, that he could never hate him, but before he could, Fenris shook his head. “But it isn’t better.” He stood. Azzan looked up, suddenly aware more than ever before of Fenris’ height, his strength, the cords of muscle spanning every inch of that body beneath the armor. His breath caught in his throat. “That night. I remember your touch as if it were yesterday.” Fenris stopped in front of him. “I should have asked your forgiveness long ago. I hope you can forgive me now.”

Fenris’ hands twitched at his sides. Azzan’s heart wrenched. This… couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t get his hopes up. This wasn’t…

 _Healbird_ , Faith whispered, and he nearly broke right there. She wasn’t reprimanding him. She was soothing him.

“I need to know.” His voice cracked. “The real reason why you left, Fenris.”

“I’ve thought about the answer a thousand times.” Fenris ducked his head, his gaze searching as if to find that answer still. “The pain, the memories it brought up. It was too much.” He turned away.

It was what Fenris had told him those three long years ago. It wasn’t an answer.

“I was a coward.” Fenris shook his head. “If I could go back, I would stay. Tell you how I felt.”

It still wasn’t an answer. But perhaps it was the only one Fenris had. The rest… the rest, Azzan thought, he might have always understood. Even if, to Fenris, it was only cowardice.

He frowned as he took in what Fenris had said. “How you felt? What would you have said?”

That certainty returned to his stance. When Fenris faced him squarely, there was an intensity to him that hadn’t been there for… for a very long time. Since that night. “Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.”

His fingers froze on his lap. Despite how certain he seemed, Fenris’ words had been soft when he’d spoken them. For a moment, he let himself wonder if this was how he’d always felt. Had Fenris longed for him in any capacity, in any way like Azzan had mourned the loss of him? Was that why he wore Azzan’s favor still, why he carried the Hawke emblem wherever he went? “Isabela?” he whispered, only to be met with confusion.

“There’s never been anything between me and her, Hawke,” he said, as if the answer should have been obvious. Azzan reeled at the very notion.

“Merrill will be relieved,” he said, and watched that eyebrow climb. He wasn’t doing this right. Fenris had just proclaimed something perhaps even stronger than love – a need to be with him, come what may. Azzan couldn’t deny how he’d always felt, too. Despite everything. Despite being that which Fenris hated. Knowing he was ‘stained’ brought agony to his chest, yet he still hurt more at the thought of turning away from Fenris’ outstretched hand.

He loved Fenris. He’d always loved Fenris. The words locked in his throat, choking him after so many years of being locked away. He could say them now. He was certain he could. But they wouldn’t pass his lips. “The reason you left,” he said, and each word came out inflected, as he struggled to keep himself still, “I understand. I always understood.”

He was a monster. A mage. Fenris had been ready to crawl into Azzan’s bed despite that fact, even though he was just another magic-user. Even though he was still on the run from Danarius. In reality, his memories had been painful, but what he’d run from was the knowledge that they’d all been lost to him. Because of magic.

 _Because of mages_.

Fenris dared come closer. He leaned down, until his face was inches from Azzan’s. He’d seen the man get close like this when dealing with Hadriana. Unlike with her, Azzan felt no fear. “If there is a future to be had,” Fenris said, “I will walk into it gladly at your side.”

The tears burst. He lifted himself off the bench, his only thought to try to hide his response. Yet Fenris was ready to meet him. When he lifted his lips to Fenris’, Fenris’ hand met his cheek, guiding him. His tears fell down onto that warm touch. He’d never thought to feel the soft pressure of Fenris’ lips again. He’d never thought to be here, in this place, where his love could burst out and be accepted for what it was. He smiled, lips widening against Fenris’, only to pull back, unable to stop himself from hiccuping as his tears fell harder.

“Hawke.” Fenris shook his head, even as Azzan bent over at the waist slightly, having to hold his sides to keep silent. Fenris’ hand found his cheek again. “I’m sorry.”

“No.” He shook his head more fervently. “I’m not. Please.” He scrubbed at his face. “I’m happy.”

He loved Fenris more than Fenris could ever love him. But, for the first time, he was allowed to love the man. Without reserve, without fear. He could love Fenris with all of his heart. The chokehold he’d put on his heart had been so tight, the release of it was like an iron band had been removed from around his chest. It hurt so badly he couldn’t breathe, yet every time he forced air down his throat, it stretched constricted muscles into use once more. He clutched his chest and looked up. He smiled. “I never thought I could have this again.”

Fenris closed his eyes and groaned. “Hawke,” he whispered, and pressed his lips to Azzan’s once more. They were warm. Warm, and dry, and soft, and Azzan could breathe in the cinnamon-and-lightning scent of Fenris when he inhaled. He leaned forward, taking that scent, that touch, until his chest bumped against the metal of Fenris’ breastplate. His fingers curled, so carefully they barely touched, around the edges of those sharp cheekbones and into the soft hair framing Fenris’ face. He felt the soft brush of those long ears against the lengths of his fingers. He tilted his head, opened his mouth, and waited, breath held, until Fenris delved inside his mouth.

Azzan remembered, hazily, the feeling of these kisses. They’d been desperate then, too. Less wet, since he hadn’t been crying at the time, but somehow sloppier. Fenris accepted the lead Azzan gave him, leaning over Azzan, nearly curling around him, that hand on Azzan’s cheek pressing hard, curling until the sharp edges of those claws pricked into his skin, and then that other hand reached up and grabbed Azzan’s hair. His tie was in the way; he could feel Fenris’ fingers bumping into the nub holding his hair back. With a growl, Fenris wrapped his thumb and finger around the hairtie and pulled it out. Those spiked fingers sank deep into his hair as it fell around his face.

Emboldened, Azzan let his hands touch Fenris more firmly. He traced that flowing silkiness down to the sides of Fenris’ neck, felt the slight divots in his skin that foretold the spark of lyrium. Fenris plunged his tongue deep even as Azzan touched. He felt Fenris’ kiss all the way down to his toes; every inch of him lit up like sunlight, bursting with an energy so frenetic it seized every muscle in his body. He found himself short of breath, simply because his heart suddenly insisted on beating out of his chest. Fenris slid his tongue along Azzan’s and sucked. He had to lock his legs to keep them from buckling. His hands slid to the back of Fenris’ head and spanned wide, until his palms were lost in white. He let himself lean more heavily on Fenris, let the elf take his weight the way he knew he could. Even though he couldn’t breathe, he feared moving away. This seemed unreal. His head buzzed.

_Healbird._

He ignored Faith’s voice. He didn’t want to hear it. Here, now, was them. Just them. Faith needed to stay out of it.

_Healbird!_

Its voice was too insistent. He pulled back, breaking off the kiss, suddenly concerned with there being a third party. But the instant he pulled back, Faith did, as well. He sucked in a huge breath and started coughing.

Maker. He’d forgotten to breathe.

Fenris held his shoulders as he hacked up his lungs. His voice, when he spoke, sounded wry. “Forget how to kiss, Hawke?”

“It’s been a while,” he said, not really thinking about the words until Fenris’ fingers stilled around him. He looked up. His eyes burned from the tears he’d shed, and he was forced to rub them before being able to focus on that face.

Fenris looked… puzzled. His brows were so low over his eyes they turned them into a deep, forest green. His lips parted, only to close, only to part again. “What?”

Azzan flushed. “What?”

Fenris slid his hands off of him. Azzan frowned. Had what he’d said been wrong somehow?

One by one, Fenris unlatched the hooks and buckles of his gauntlets. They hung off the pauldrons. He began working on them, even as his gaze returned to Azzan’s face. He gasped. Once again, he needed a silent prodding from Faith to be reminded to breathe. His body heated. His blood surged straight south. “You’re saying you’ve been with no one since you were last with me.”

Azzan flushed. Said like that, it meant… it meant how it sounded. He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t waiting,” he said. “I just… had nowhere else I wanted to go.”

Fenris groaned again. His eyes closed. His feet swayed. _“Hawke.”_ One pauldron unclasped. It clunked to the tiled floor. His eyes opened to mere slits. “I’ve been dreaming about you for years.”

He didn’t miss how the man didn’t return Azzan’s admission. But Azzan hadn’t expected him to wait. He’d expected Fenris to have been with Isabela. Whether he had been or not – he wouldn’t let himself think on that one too long – didn’t meant they were together. It meant only that they might have had sex. (He still wasn’t thinking about it.) No emotional attachment.

Still. In three years, it was unlikely Fenris hadn’t had any sex, unless old memories made the act difficult. The idea of it was strange – Fenris wouldn’t have cheated on him; Azzan had had no claim on him then, and might not have one now. But it still felt odd, to think that Azzan had waited while Fenris had not.

He watched as Fenris released the clasps on the second pauldron. That one fell to the floor, as well, banging so loudly the sound seemed to echo in the empty room. Azzan’s heart flipped over itself, this time with a snaky, oily feeling. He didn’t want to get naked. He didn’t want to have sex. It didn’t feel right. But if he said no, if he turned Fenris away, what would happen? Would they have to wait another three years? Would Fenris leave – not just the room, but Kirkwall? Would he miss this chance forever?

Instead of moving on to his breastplate, Fenris returned to Azzan’s side, his arms bare now as he raised them to touch. Azzan dared do the same; he hadn’t seen Fenris’ bare hands since that night, and seeing them again made something ache in his breast. He held up one hand and gently clasped one wrist. He pressed his lips to the base of the palm, where so many of those pale lines began breaking apart to follow the metacarpals. Lightning frissoned over his sensitive lips, nearly stinging them. Fenris stared at him with wide eyes. Azzan pulled at the words he’d shoved deep down inside his heart. Fenris had been the first to take a chance. Azzan would be the second. “I love you,” he said. The tears tried to return, but he squinted them back. “I’ve loved you since long before that day.”

Fenris twisted his hand and curled his fingers around Azzan’s. There was something written in the minutiae of his face, but Azzan couldn’t figure it out. He almost seemed to be contemplating something painful. Fenris’ fingers squeezed his tight. It was only then he realized he was trembling – when there was no room for his fingers to tremble anymore. “I think I knew,” he said. “Even when I refused to believe it, or thought I was being too hopeful. I knew.” Fenris carded the free fingers of his hand through Azzan’s loose hair. It still stuck up around his forehead, still sat slightly back from his cheeks, since he’d pulled it back when it had still been wet from his shower. But that must have been all right, because Fenris didn’t seem to care. “You never hesitated to come to me when I needed you. Even when I didn’t deserve it. When you should have hated me.”

“I could never hate you.” He said the words now, as he hadn’t let himself before. Unlike when those gauntlets had been on, Fenris’ fingers slid easily through the locks of his hair, caressing the back of his scalp. He sighed. “You have to know I would never hate you. That I would do anything I could for you.”

_I love you enough to let you betray me._

Fenris didn’t answer. Instead he leaned in close and brushed his lips over Azzan’s again. It felt like the press of air. Little more than a breath. As if he was testing something, or dipping his toes in after having already dived deep. It sent tingles up Azzan’s arms. He pulled his hand free and wrapped his arms around Fenris’ back, ignoring the cold sting of steel as his upper arms encountered that breastplate. Fenris didn’t stiffen or try to pull back, so he held on tighter and pressed his lips more firmly against Fenris’. Those warm fingers clenched thick into his hair.

He had so much he wanted to say. So much he wanted to give. He stood only a couple of inches higher than Fenris, but it was enough to make him dip his head down where their lips touched. They didn’t try to go deeper again; perhaps Fenris feared he’d forget how to breathe again. Perhaps it didn’t feel any more right to go further at that moment for him than it did for Azzan. Perhaps this was all they needed.

Eventually, they parted, pulling back just enough to see one another again. Fenris lifted his now free hand to trace the line of Azzan’s cheek from brow to jaw. His thumb scraped through the stubble, making a scratching noise as it slid down. Fenris seemed to be studying it – studying him – as if he’d never seen Azzan before. “We rushed this last time,” he said, then, an instant later, “I did.”

Azzan smiled. “I didn’t protest it, Fenris.”

“Would you have?” The man dropped his hand. Azzan, taking the non-verbal cue, let him go. Fenris stepped back, finally dropping his hand from Azzan’s hair. It fell in a tangled mess over his shoulders. “This is… more than I could have hoped. I… last night, thinking about where I was heading. I couldn’t imagine where I would go.” He looked away again, hiding himself with the long bangs of his hair. As always, the hiding lasted for but a few moments before he turned back. “I thought about what I’d been looking for with Varania. How I’d been hoping to find something – someone – to hold on to. Some sort of anchor. A connection to my past, yes. But something more. I’d wanted a family.”

Azzan winced. Yes. He understood that. Though his past did not compare with Fenris’, the longing for a lost family was something he could deeply comprehend. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wanted that for you, too.”

Fenris shook his head. “After what she did, I thought I was alone. But I was wrong. I thought clinging to you was the same as being chained to Danarius. I was wrong about that, as well.” Azzan barely managed to hold back the grimace at that admission. This time, it seemed Fenris had caught it, because he was quick to say, “I was wrong about so many things.”

Azzan worked his throat a couple of times before he was able to speak. “You’re clinging to me?”

He didn’t know what he expected, but a roll of the eyes was not it. Fenris ran his fingers along the furred lining of Hawke’s robe. The way his gaze followed his own movements spoke of a desire that had long gone unquenched. “I had feared I was. But now I know what it truly is.” His palm flattened against Azzan’s chest, directly over his heart. Fenris seared him with his stare. “I’m not clinging. I’m choosing.”

Fenris’ palm still rested over Azzan’s chest, so he had to have felt the way Azzan’s heart tripped over itself and pounded out a raucous beat. The slightly stunned look on his face clinched the idea.

Fenris could never love Azzan the way Azzan loved him. But Fenris had chosen to try loving him despite that fact. Despite his being a mage. Azzan should try loving him despite knowing Fenris would always view him, at least a little bit, as ‘spoiled.’ “I would never try to own you, Fenris. Never.”

“Idiot.” Fenris’ fingers curled into the cloth of Azzan’s robe. The line of fur filled Fenris’ palm. Fenris leaned up, so close the two eyes in Azzan’s vision blurred into one. _“I know that.”_

This time, Fenris did not hesitate or play nice. Like the first time, he wrenched Azzan forward, actually stealing his balance from him himself. Their lips crushed bruisingly together. Azzan gripped Fenris’ unarmored shoulders for balance. Fenris slipped inside once more. Azzan melted entirely; he licked at the tongue that had forced its own entrance, opened his mouth wide and slanted his head to give them both as much access as possible. After so many years, he didn’t quite recall how this kissing thing was supposed to go down, but he remembered the basics. And what he didn’t remember, it seemed Fenris was perfectly fine with reteaching. Azzan tried to duel with Fenris’ tongue, but the moment he clenched down around Fenris’ shoulders, his mind skipped at the hot feel of skin and muscle beneath his fingertips. His brain flew off to parts unknown.

Fenris’ skin was beneath his. He could feel the dip and press of muscles, of sinew. He felt lines of scars he’d never traced before, even with his eyes. He whimpered in Fenris’ mouth. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe he _was_ ready to have sex.

He shifted, placed one foot beside Fenris’ and shifted all of his weight onto it. It brought his entire body flush against Fenris’, against all that metal and leather and supple strength. He could feel Fenris’ muscles bunch as he took on Azzan’s altered weight, felt the heat from beneath the thick leather on his stomach and his thighs. Heat emanated from the place between, as well. He skimmed his hands down Fenris’ arms, along the ridges of embedded lyrium and around the hills and valleys of tricep and bicep. He barely remembered to suck in a breath when his head started going light, his mind so off from the kiss that Fenris pulled back and cocked a brow at him. He could reach Fenris’ ear by doing little more than leaning a bit further. “Too fast?” he asked, and turned his lips to that ear. Fenris full body shuddered against him. Azzan’s undergarments grew tight.

“Not here,” Fenris said, even as he tilted his head so his ear pressed against Azzan’s lips. He opened his mouth and took that soft flesh between his teeth, careful not to bite down. Even that small touch had Fenris shuddering again. “Not in this place.”

It took a while for Azzan to understand. When he did, he let Fenris’ ear go and backed away. For some reason, even though he hadn’t been doing anything strenuous, his breath was short. He took in deep lungfuls as he dropped his arms. Fenris didn’t want to have sex here – here, where bad memories likely persisted. Where Danarius’ ghost, and the ghosts of those who followed him, still stood. He nodded. “Right. Where do you want to go?”

That eyebrow climbed again. “Where do you think, Hawke?”

He flushed. “I didn’t want to presume.”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “Of course you didn’t.” The man came to him, his touch light as he caressed Azzan’s cheek. His gaze searched Azzan’s face for something. Whatever he found – or didn’t find – made him frown. His mouth opened, only to close again. He pulled away. “Would you mind?”

Azzan shook his head. “My home is your home, at any time you want it to be, for as long as you want it to be.”

His answer left Fenris blinking. The man scratched his chin. He needed to adjust the action to accommodate the lack of his usual gauntlets. “Right,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Then we should,” he cleared his throat again, “continue this there.”

Azzan made no move to leave, but instead waited for Fenris to make his move. Several moments passed before he realized Fenris was doing the same. He smiled. Fenris huffed. “I suppose moving to a different building sort of puts a damper on it,” he said, and chuckled. Despite having not actually flagged in the slightest, he did find the idea of walking sedately back to his place, only to go straight to the bedroom, to be a bit beyond awkward.

“We could always try again later,” Fenris said. Azzan read the smirk on his face and relaxed. Fenris didn’t mind that what he’d initiated might not go any farther this day. “Though I wouldn’t mind seeing your home again.”

Meaning he wouldn’t mind seeing it under the knowledge that it was now his, as well, to come and go as he pleased. “I would like that.”

He would have to tell Bodahn and Orana the change in circumstance. His friends were already allowed in whenever they arrived, regardless of whether or not he was there at the time. Now Fenris would be given carte blanche; he wouldn’t have to knock or wait for admittance. He wouldn’t have ‘acceptable’ places to wander and unacceptable places – not that many of his friends, primarily Isabela, didn’t already ignore such proprieties, but still – and he wouldn’t have to leave. If he needed something, Bodahn or Orana could get it for him – not that he wouldn’t simply get it himself. Whatever ‘it’ may entail.

Azzan’s heart flipped. He felt it happen. He wondered if Fenris would want to come live with him – but no, that would be too much like handing himself over entirely. The man would want his space. They couldn’t move too fast. Azzan had to take it slow, take it at Fenris’ pace…

Well, if he’d wanted to do that, then he probably shouldn’t have told the man he loved him.

Fenris’ smirk widened. “It always amazes me,” he said. His words pulled Azzan’s attention fully to him once more. “Sometimes I think I can actually see you thinking yourself into a bad mood.”

Azzan laughed. He ran his hand through his hair, momentarily surprised when it slid all the way through instead of catching on his hairtie. He searched the floor for it as he responded. “I don’t think I’m capable of a bad mood right now.”

Fenris stepped up beside him, bent down, and lifted the hairtie from beside the chair Azzan had sat in when he’d first arrived. He held it out, only to wrap his fingers around Azzan’s hand when he reached for it. “I know the feeling.”

Azzan smiled. “Do you want to come over? For company that doesn’t include sex.”

Fenris snorted. “That sounds perfect.”

At that moment, almost anything sounded perfect. He’d never been happier in his life.

His mother had been right. Things between him and Fenris had worked out.


End file.
